Fool for Love
by PoppyMandragora
Summary: This is a canon rewrite of Fool for Love that I'm doing mainly as an exercise for myself to get back into creative writing, but I hope it's a good read as well. Spoilers through the end of the episode (5.7). Rated T, based on the content of the original ep.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer. BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon, et al., and isn't my intellectual property. This episode was written by Douglas Petrie, and dialogue is taken from the episode transcript at Buffy World, occasionally corrected using the DVD subtitles. No financial gain is made from this, it's purely for entertainment purposes. Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball._

 _A/N: I started writing this over the weekend as a mental palate cleanser from the Term Paper That Ate My Brain. Ten pages on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in terms of modernist theater, anyone? I'm working on getting out of dry academic language and back into fiction, and am focusing on description and detail with this one, so that ideally someone who hasn't watched the episode would have almost as clear a mental picture of what's going on as if they'd seen it. It's all third person past tense, but I added just a pinch of characterization, so if it's something Buffy-centric, there should be a hint of her style here and there, and the same for Spike. Just stretching my writing muscles a bit before I get back into original AU stuff. It's a straight canon rewrite of Fool for Love, which is one of my favorite episodes, so spoilers through the end of that._

* * *

The cemetery was dark and devoid of mourners; somewhere in the distance, an owl called. The seeming peace was broken by a loud grunt and the sound of a blow landing. Buffy was dressed for a cool evening in a soft blue sweater, a dark blue scarf wrapped casually around her neck, and her blonde hair pulled into two messy braids. The vamp she fought was a hopelessly carbon-dated hair metal reject, with a wild mane of dark hair, and a black leather jacket decorated with a brightly spray-painted anarchy symbol. The pair traded punches briefly, then Buffy sent him flying. The vamp gathered himself back up to stand, as Buffy quipped and taunted him.

"You know, it's probably none of my business, but I just gotta ask. You smell this bad when you were alive?" She spun and kicked him into a nearby headstone. "'Cause if it's a post-mortem thing, then boy, is my face red. But just so you know…" Buffy punched the vamp hard enough to send him spinning over the headstone to land, spread-eagled, on the ground behind it. "The fast-growing field of personal grooming has come a long way since you became a vampire."

Buffy took out a stake, then jumped, flipping herself over the headstone. She landed in front of the vamp, stake raised and intending to dust him, but his hand caught her wrist before she could lower it for the killing blow. He whirled himself around, still holding Buffy's arm, pulling it down as he spun. The stake, so recently poised to pierce the vamp through the heart, slammed into Buffy instead, entering just below the ribs on the left side. Buffy clutched herself and looked down, grimacing in agony and surprise.

Buffy's head came up, staring at the vamp for a moment of disbelief, then she clenched her teeth and angrily hit him with left fist, her right still holding the stake that now protruded from her. The vamp collapsed, and Buffy looked back down at herself, letting go of the stake to see the blood that now covered both her hands and was rapidly soaking through her sweater. Steeling herself, she gripped the stake tightly in both hands, grunting as she pulled it out, the wound making a horrid squelching sound as the stake exited her body.

She turned and began to limp away from the vampire as fast as she could, looking back over her shoulder frequently to see if he was following. Finally thinking the coast was clear, she turned fully forward and was trying to run faster when the vamp vaulted over a nearby grave and landed in front of her. "You're going? But you were having so much fun a minute ago!"

Buffy gasped and backed slowly away from him as he strode toward her. He threw a punch. She got an arm up in time to block it, but he hit her from the other side and sent her tumbling into a nearby mausoleum. She stood panting, gripping the corner to hold herself upright. The vamp knelt, picking up the stake Buffy had dropped when he hit her, and walked toward her. Buffy stood, her eyes wide as she gasped in pain and fear, knowing that she couldn't escape, that this might be the end. The vamp raised his arm, preparing to stake her.

Suddenly, a dark shape hurtled into the vamp and knocked it to the ground; Riley's patrol route had intersected with Buffy's. He knelt over the vampire and dealt it several strong blows before taking out his stun gun, the blue arc of electricity crackling as he prepared to shock the vampire into submission. Buffy slowly sank down the wall she leaned against, grimacing as the remnants of her adrenaline-fueled energy ebbed and the full pain of her wound hit her again. The gun discharged, but the vampire appeared unhurt, throwing Riley off of him and running off through the graveyard. Riley scrambled to his feet preparing to give chase, before glancing back to check on Buffy.

Noticing that she was wounded, he let vampire make its escape. Riley ran to Buffy, kneeling in front of her, concern on his handsome face. "Buffy! What happened?" She looked down at her hands, covered in her own blood. Riley gathered her into his arms, cradling her as she began to collapse. "Oh my God", he breathed, as he saw the blood drenching her. He held her for a moment, stroking her forehead.

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _A/N, part the second: Just in case you're wondering about the Riley's "handsome face" bit... I'm Spuffy all the way, but don't feel the need to bash Riley. They both made huge mistakes, and relationships are hard, y'all. Plus, while I don't usually go for the big, corn-fed types, Marc Blucas is a fine looking man, and I didn't mind in the slightest having to re-watch that scene several times while writing this. ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I skipped over the next two scenes: "Paramedic Boyfriend", and "Patrolling... Sort of". I felt like both were a distraction from the main Spike/ Buffy storyline, even though Buffy is in the first of them, and they were mainly there to remind us that Riley is the Good and Useful Guy, since Into the Woods is right around the corner. It also seemed like the Scoobies had been handed an Idiot Ball apiece to make Riley look extra good; Xander and Willow had been working with Buffy for over four years, and had helped take out the Mayor and Adam, so acting like that while out on patrol was OOC. Plus, wasn't Xander supposed to have his Useful Military Memories? You'd think he'd still remember tactical hand signals... OK, sorry, off that soap box, now. ;) I might come back to the patrol scene at some point in a different fic for the humor value, though. Enjoy!_

* * *

Giles sat in The Magic Box, the table in front of him heaped with books. He took a sip of tea and stood, reading as he rose, "Here's another one. Early 18th Century Slayer."

At the counter, Buffy sat behind similar stacks. As Giles spoke, she closed the book she'd been looking through. "Good. Let's hope she'll be more helpful than this last one."

Glancing over, Giles asked, "Why? What does it say?"

Buffy summarized for him, her exasperation with the lack of information showing through, "Same as all the others. Slayer called... blah, blah... great protector... blah, blah... scary battles... blah, blah... oops! She's dead. Where are the details?"

"Details?" Giles walked to Buffy, handing her his open volume. "Well, it says this Slayer forged her own weapons."

"Gotta love a gal with an anvil," Buffy acknowledged. "But where are the details of the Slayer's last battle? You know, what made that fight special? Why did she lose?"

Giles turned his attention to adjusting the heart shaped suncatcher over the counter, uncomfortable with the thought of Buffy's recent injury, and how very close he'd come to losing his Slayer. "You didn't lose last night, Buffy. You just-"

Buffy interrupted, "Got really close. I slipped up, Giles. I've been training harder than ever and still I... And there's nothing in any of these books to help me understand why. I mean... look, I realize that every Slayer comes with an expiration mark on the package. But I want mine to be a long time from now." She looked down, pursing her lips as she sought the perfect simile, "Like a Cheeto. If there were just a few good descriptions of what took out the other Slayers, maybe it would help me to understand my mistake, to keep it from happening again."

Giles shrugged out of his jacket and sat down opposite from Buffy. "Yes, well, the problem is after a final battle, it's difficult to get any... well, the Slayer's not... she's rather...," he stammered, uncomfortably avoiding Buffy's gaze.

"It's okay to use the D-word, Giles," Buffy assured him.

Giles glanced over, briefly. "Dead. And hence not very forthcoming."

Buffy riffled through the pages on one of the open volumes. "Why didn't the Watchers keep fuller accounts of it? The journals just stop."

"Well, I suppose if they're anything like me, they just find the whole subject too…," Giles trailed off.

Buffy finished for him, "Unseemly?" Giles glanced over at Buffy, pained. "Damn. Love ya but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes."

"Painful... I was going to say," Giles corrected, looking at Buffy as he spoke, his love and concern for her showing. Their eyes met for a moment, and they paused in silent acknowledgement. Giles rose and continued, "But you're right. Accounts of the final battles would be very helpful. But there's no one left to tell the tales."

Giles looked back over at Buffy, seeing a realization beginning to take hold of her. "What?"

* * *

Spike slammed into the wall of his crypt, grimacing as his sharply chiseled cheekbone made contact with the hard stone. "Ow!" he exclaimed, then paused a moment, furrowing his brow in thought. "Wait. Not ow. You feeling all right, Slayer? This stuff usually hurts." Buffy spun him around to face her, this time slamming his back into the wall. Spike bit his lip in anticipation, some inkling of the truth beginning to dawn on him. His tongue curled over his human teeth, before his face broke into a broad smirk.

"Don't even start, Spike."

Spike looked down at her. "What do you want?"

Buffy looked up at him, her eyes large, but not giving away the new fear that had kindled in her since the attack. "Slayers. You killed two of them."

Whatever Spike had expected her to say, it wasn't that. Confused and somewhat wary, he stood up taller, losing his teasing air as the grin left his face. "I did."

Buffy stared at him, resolved. "You're gonna show me how."

* * *

Music played in the background as Buffy and Spike sat at a small table next to the staircase in the Bronze. Buffy's long, blonde hair tumbled down over her shoulders. The ruched, beige tank she wore accented the warmth of her sun-kissed skin tone. Spike's usual uniform of black tee and black duster faded into the dim background of the club, his pale skin and hair standing out in contrast. He drained his beer, looking down into the empty glass mug bitterly. "You know, there quite a few American beers that are highly underrated. This unfortunately is not one of them."

Buffy, all business, tried to take control of the conversation. "Update, Spike. We're not here to discuss the fine choice of hops. It's about two Slayers: one in China during the Boxer Rebellion, one in New York. Both got killed _by you_." She flashed a folded wad of cash at him. Spike reached out for it, but she smacked his fingers with it and jerked it back before he could take it. Spike rubbed his fingertips and made a wry face as she continued talking. "Tell the tale, you get the cash." She gestured with the money for emphasis as she spoke, before putting it back into her purse.

"Right. You want to learn all about how I bested the Slayers and you want to learn fast. Right, then. We fought. I won. The end. Pay up," Spike snarked at her, hurt that she'd rebuffed his earlier attempt at small talk.

"That's not what I-"

"What did you want, eh? A quick demo? A blow-for-blow description you can map out and memorize?" Spike glanced away and scoffed. "It's not about the moves, love. And since I agreed to your little proposition, we can do this my way. Wings." He settled back smugly, waiting for his demand to be met.

Buffy paused, confused. "What?"

"Spicy buffalo wings," he enunciated. "Order me up a plate. I'm feelin' peckish."

Buffy sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes, but turned to get their server's attention. "Excuse me," she started to say, but the motion of her turn and reach pulled at the injury the vamp had inflicted earlier. Her voice broke off as her breath hitched, and she pressed her hand to her stomach, wincing.

Spike watched, smirking, pleased that his predator's instinctive eye for weakness had been right earlier. "As I thought. Some nasty thing got a taste of you."

"I'm fine."

"Oh, right. Stuck in a dark corner with a creature you loathe, diggin' up past uglies 'cause you're 'fine'."

"Just tell me what I want to know."

"I told you." He leaned in toward Buffy. "No one's narrating on an empty stomach here."

Buffy shook her head, "Were you born this big a pain in the ass?"

"What can I tell you baby? I've always been bad." Spike cocked his head to the side and growled out the last word, putting a heavy dose of innuendo into it.

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

"Were you born this big a pain in the ass?"

"What can I tell you baby? I've always been bad."

 _Bollocks_ , Spike thought, recalling the fateful night his un-life began, _where can I start without sounding like a complete prat?_

* * *

 **London, 1880**

The bookish young man sat, writing on a loose piece of paper on top of a notebook on his lap, while quiet violin music played over the soft conversation in the background. His dark blonde hair flopped over his forehead as he bent and peered through his wire-rimmed glasses at the page. "Luminous," he said quietly to himself, his voice cultured and gentle. "Oh, no, no, no." He scratched out his last word with his fountain pen, looking up to stare across the room in search of a better one. "Ir- irradiant... that's better." He remained dubious and paused to think, sucking the end of his pen.

A waiter approached him, holding out a tray. "Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?"

Smiling softly, the young man looked up. "Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for 'gleaming'?"

The waiter tilted his head back, his reddish mustache and muttonchops catching the light as he gazed in puzzlement at the seated gentleman. The young man continued, "It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see." The waiter frowned briefly in seeming agreement, then smiled and nodded politely without speaking, turning to walk away and offer his tray to other guests.

The young man's face took on a look of wonder as his attention was caught by an elegant lady gliding down the staircase across the crowded room from him. Her pale cream evening dress sat low on her shoulders, trimmed with pleated, lilac ribbons and flowered accents. The swathed fabric hugged her curves, gathering to a small, fashionable bustle in back. He was entranced by this vision, unable to look away as she began to talk happily with a group of her acquaintances. "Cecily," he sighed. Inspired, he looked back down at his paper and wrote hurriedly, glancing back up at his muse as he wrote. He looked up and smiled in satisfaction, rising from the chair and walking over to the conversing group.

He paused behind a couple standing close together, listening as the woman declared, "I merely point out that it's something of a mystery and the police should keep an open mind."

A cravat-wearing gentleman standing opposite her acknowledged the young man, who came out from behind the couple and made his way to a gap in the standing circle of guests. "Ah, William!" the gentleman said, "Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?"

"I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for." William nodded, primly. Glancing across the circle at Cecily, he became flustered for a moment, before continuing, "I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty." William gestured with his notebook as he spoke.

The gentleman stepped forward, snatching the paper from on top of it and walking on past. "I see. Well, don't withhold, William."

William looked down, his expression closing, as the man with his poem stepped up onto the bottom step and turned, preparing to read aloud to the group.

"Rescue us from a dreary topic," said the woman who had spoken earlier.

"Careful," said William, reaching out in hope of reclaiming his paper. The man jerked it further away, out of William's reach.

Making a final plea, William stuttered, softly, "The inks are still wet. Please, it's not finished."

"Don't be shy," the gentleman drawled, his face a mocking smirk. He began to read from the page, "My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in 't."

William glanced at Cecily, a faint, hopeful smile crossing his face as he watched her drop her eyes and sigh. The man continued reading, "Inspired by your beauty, effulgent." Looking at William in amused disbelief, the man repeated, "Effulgent?"

The group laughed mockingly, but William only had eyes for Cecily. She glanced at the others, then hurriedly left the room. Slowly coming back to himself, William frowned at the man who'd read his poem and snatched the page back from him, walking away from the cruel group to follow Cecily's path.

The woman's companion looked down at her in amusement, "And that's actually one of his better compositions."

She laughed, "Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"

The first gentleman replied, "It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"

* * *

Cecily perched sideways on a curved brocade settee, looking over her shoulder through a lace curtain and out into the night. Shyly, William spoke to her, "Cecily?"

She glanced at him, fanning herself before quickly looking back out the window. "Oh. Leave me alone."

William moved to sit next to her, his knees nearly touching hers. Mistaking the cause of her mood, he addressed the reaction of the other guests, "Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you and I."

Cecily lowered her fan and looked directly at William. She was bathed in the warm glow of the pink, flower-painted lamp globe behind her, making her even more beautiful to William's adoring eyes. Cecily repeated his last words, "You and I?" She paused, glancing down at her lap before she spoke again. "I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"

William nodded eagerly, looking over the top of his glasses at her with devotion. His breath quickened, waiting for her to continue.

"Your poetry," Cecily began, hesitating as she asked the difficult question, "it's... they're... not written about me, are they?"

William looked at her, answering earnestly, "They're about how I feel."

Cecily frowned and nodded. "Yes, but are they about me?"

William paused, gathering fortitude. Finally he inhaled sharply and clenched his jaw before declaring, "Every syllable."

"Oh, God!" Cecily looked quickly away, clapping her hand to her brow before looking back at William. Pity lined her features.

William misread her show of emotion and carried on, "Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily.

Cecily begged him, "Please stop!" She turned away, unable to look at his adoring face any longer.

Unable to stop his declaration now that he'd started, William pleaded, "I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me—"

Cecily turned to look at him over her shoulder, interrupting him, "I do see you. That's the problem." She paused with a sad frown before explaining, "You're nothing to me, William." She stood, looking down at him, before mixing soft eyes with hard words. "You're beneath me," she stated, looking at him a moment longer before turning and walking away.

William sat, alone. All hope left his face, and his brows drew together in pain, his eyes glinting. His lips parted several times and began to quiver as he took in his beloved's response to his offered heart. His hands clutched at the poems held in his lap as he sat, working them as he sniffed back the beginning of tears.

 _To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**London, 1880**

William walked out into the dark London street, ripping up the page holding his rejected words as he went. In his distraction he bumped into a hulking, dark-haired man who was walking with a pair of women in the other direction, dropping his torn papers as he did so. The dark lady to the man's left smoothly parted ways with him to walk around William, while the blonde to the man's right wrapped her arm around him more tightly. As he stumbled on after gathering up the pieces, William sobbed out, "Watch where you're going!"

He strode on down the paved street, the tears rolling down his cheeks glinting in the light of the gas lamps. Pedestrians ignored him, and a man on a horse rode by without acknowledging, as the broken-hearted poet ducked quickly into a nearby alleyway.

William sat on a bale of hay, tearing what was left of his poem into smaller and smaller pieces, until he couldn't continue, dropping his hands to his lap and looking at them despairingly. The dark lady who had avoided his path earlier approached, asking softly, "And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?" She tilted her head, inquiringly, as William looked up at her.

"Nothing," he lied, "I wish to be alone." He dropped his gaze back to the shredded pages in his hands.

"Oh, I see you," the woman said confidently, taking a step toward him. "A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." William looked up at her, wonder dawning on his face at her words. He blinked tears away as he gazed up at her. She paused and drew back her shoulders before speaking again, accenting her next words with an odd dance to her own inner music, "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head." The woman took another step toward him.

William, taken aback by her sudden strangeness, leapt up from his seat and took several steps back. "That's quite close enough," he warned her, one finger upraised. "I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you."

The woman bent down until her smiling face showed in a pool of light, before rising back into the shadows and assuring him, "Don't need a purse." She walked toward him, reaching out to lay a lace-gloved hand over his heart. "Your wealth lies here... and here," she said, reaching to lay the hand against the side of his head. Looking up, she gazed at him as she breathed, "In the spirit and..." She dropped her eyes and slowly trailed her hand down his body. William closed his eyes and gasped at the sensation. She looked back up at him from under dark lashes. "Imagination," she finished, her voice lowered into a sultry tone. She leaned in as if going to kiss him, before whispering slowly, "You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine," her head weaving and eyes half-closed as she wandered the pathways of his inner landscape.

William's body and heart burned with an unaccustomed heat at this strange creature's ability to see into his soul. Passionately, he whispered, "Oh, yes!" A moment later he came back to himself and shut his eyes, saying, "I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me."

The dark lady's hand tugged at his collar, and she gazed raptly at his neck beneath it. "I see what you want," she said softly, tilting her head as she drew closer to him. "Something glowing and glistening. Something," she began, then leaned back, her hand rising up, "effulgent." She grasped quickly at the air, her hand closing as it plucked the word from his thoughts.

"Effulgent," William mouthed, his eyes focused on her and an amazed hope on his face.

She gazed into Williams eyes, lifting his chin gently with a finger before asking, "Do you want it?"

"Oh, yes!" He laid one trembling hand on her breast. "God, yes."

She looked down as his hand lay on her, and a quiet cracking sound could be heard. She raised her head to look at him out of yellow eyes, heavy ridges marring her beautiful brow. He blinked in surprise, but didn't step away, his hand still on her. She leaned in slowly, tilting her head as she drew closer to the side of his neck. She opened her mouth, now bearing sharp teeth on either side where her human canines had been before. Tilting her head to his shoulder, she sank her fangs into his neck.

Still enthralled and unmoving, William exclaimed, "Ow!" He paused, briefly. "Ow, ow… ow, ow, OW!" His cries of pain became louder and more frequent, then became a moan of pleasure instead. A look of rapture crossed his face and he sank down with a sigh, the female vampire still coupled to his neck, riding him down as he fell into the darkness.

 _To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N Sorry for the delay with this chapter, it's been a busy couple of weeks. I also had trouble getting into writing this one, since it's mostly just a bridge between more interesting scenes. Still, I didn't want to leave it out, since it's an important step in the William/ Spike evolution. Again though, skipping over Riley and the Scoobies._

* * *

The cue ball sent the seven into the pocket with a loud smack. "Nine in the corner," Spike announced, as he walked around the table to set up his next shot.

Buffy leaned against a pillar, holding her pool cue. Frustrated by Spike's lovingly detailed story of his turning, and unaware of the tale of human heartbreak he'd glossed over, she quickly summed things up to try to get him back on track, "So you traded up on the food chain. Then what?"

"No, please. Don't make it sound like something you'd flip past on the Discovery Channel. Becoming a vampire is a profound and powerful experience. I could feel this new strength coursing through me. Getting killed made me feel alive for the very first time." Spike pulled a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth. "I was through living by society's rules. Decided to make a few of my own. Of course, in order to do that", he struck a match on the edge of the pool table and lit his cigarette, pausing to inhale deeply, "I had to get myself a gang."

 _'Bugger it'_ , Spike thought, ' _Slayer doesn't need to know it wasn't exactly_ my _gang_ …'

* * *

 **Yorkshire, 1880**

Angelus—the hulking man, or rather vampire, who had bumped into William on the last night of his life— held the younger vamp against the wall of a mine shaft by his throat, choking the unlife out of him. Watching from behind Angelus were his blonde companion, Darla, and Drusilla, the brunette who'd followed William down the alley to end his human existence and turn him.

In his Irish brogue, Angelus growled out, "Perhaps it's my advancing years that makes me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don't we kill you?"

"...ike," he rasped out.

"What's that?" Angelus dropped him to let him talk.

"It's Spike now", he enunciated, stalking past Angelus and their two female companions. "You'd do well to remember it, mate."

Spike's newly adopted Cockney accent and slang grated on Angelus, who replied, "I'm not your mate. And when did you start talking like that?"

Darla glared at Spike. "Look, we barely got out of London alive because of you. Everywhere we go, it's the same story and now…"

Angelus interrupted her, "You've got me and my women hiding in the luxury of a mine shaft, all because William the Bloody likes the attention. This is not a reputation we need."

Spike grabbed a wine bottle and took a long drink from it while Angelus berated him, before responding. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I sully our good name? We're _vampires_."

"All the more reason to use a certain amount of finesse", Angelus explained quietly.

"Bollocks!" Spike replied, a cocky look on his face. "That stuff's for the frilly cuffs-and-collars crowd. I'll take a good brawl any day."

"And every time you do, we become the hunted." Angelus crossed the room, stopping directly in front of Spike, menacing him with his greater height and mass.

Darla sing-songed to Drusilla, "I think our boys are going to fight."

Wide eyed, Drusilla agreed, "The King of Cups expects a picnic!" She giggled and clapped her hands excitedly, "But this is not his birthday."

Darla paused, giving the insane vampire a sidelong look before responding politely, "Good point..."

"Yeah, you know what I prefer to being hunted?" Spike asked Angelus, before answering himself, "Getting caught."

"That's a brilliant strategy really... pure cunning." Angelus replied patronizingly, gripping Spike's lapels and adjusting the front of his coat in a menacing fashion.

Spike struck Angelus' hands from him, angrily exclaiming, "Sod off!" Then, pointing at the fury growing on Angelus' face, Spike laughed, and played to the vampire's urge to kill. "Come on. When was the last time you unleashed it? All out fight in a mob, back against the wall, nothing but fists and fangs? Don't you ever get tired of fights you know you're going to win?"

Grimly, Angelus replied, "No. A real kill. A good kill. It takes pure artistry. Without that, we're just animals."

"Poofter!" Spike taunted.

Angelus shoved Spike back in response. Spike returned the thrust and pressed forward, looking forward to the fight he had instigated. Angelus grabbed a metal pipe that was lying nearby and broke it over his leg, before hauling Spike up by his shirt and carrying him out into the next room. He threw Spike down onto a pile of debris and stabbed down with the broken pipe, stopping just above his heart, while the two women watched from the next room, excitedly.

Spike smiled widely, thrilled to have provoked Angelus into action. "Now you're gettin' it!"

"You can't keep this up forever." Angelus pulled back and walked away, irritated that he'd allowed Spike to goad him into fighting. "If I can't teach you, maybe someday an angry crowd will. That... or the Slayer." Angelus chuckled quietly at the thought of the brash young vamp's odds in that fight.

Spike sat up, deeply curious about this new threat. "What's a Slayer?"

 _To be continued..._


End file.
